


Greatest Hits: Lest We Forget The Tracks of a Lifetime

by WaterAndPepper



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Ryden - Fandom, brendon urie - Fandom
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 13:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterAndPepper/pseuds/WaterAndPepper
Summary: WRITTEN BY MY GUY BROOKE AND I CAUSE WE GOT BORED AND SAD."Ideas lead to decisions. Decisions lead to patterns. Patterns lead to mistakes. Mistakes lead to remorse. Remorse leads to bitterness. Bitterness leads to hate. And in every ounce of hate, don't you think there might be just the tiniest drop of love?"





	1. "Your Circuits Dead, There's Something Wrong"

**Author's Note:**

> The scenes are a bit choppy and rushed because they're supposed to be elements of a persons memory, so they are not at long or "in depth" like most stories are.

Prologue

 

"Waking up is generally the most difficult part of the day. You have to rip yourself out of blissful dreaming and dive headfirst into reality. You're dreary and confused and, overall, have no clue what to do, because you're still at least somewhat caught in that illusion. The colours and vibrancy fade, and you're left with the real world. None of us ever really wanted to wake up.

 

 _Ryan's_ _POV_

****************

"Come on, there's no way you kissed her!" Spencer laughed, taking a hit off the pipe  
in his hand.  
"I did! Swear to God, I did."  
Brendon was staring at me with a quirked brow, as though doubting my story. It was true, though, so who the hell cares? He didn't have to believe everything I said. I never asked him to.  
"Dude, Alanis Morissette? Isn't she, like, married?" Jon asked, shaking his head with a broad grin dancing over his face.  
"Guess so," I shrugged.  
Brendon smiled skeptically. Fuck him.  
We all stayed seated in a cheerful circle, passing a pipe and throwing our head back with laughter each time something humourous was said or done. Brendon's hand sat dangerously close to mine, his thumb tracing patterns only he understood into my skin. Quite frankly, I didn't care to understand them. Few things are worth caring about, and the minute touches he was applying to my hand were not amongst them. "One time, oh my God, one time, Ryan saw me and..." The stories went on, on, and on.  
"Hey, I dare you to kiss Brendon," Jon choked out.  
His eyelids seemed heavy as a hand rested against his stomach.  
"No." I spat it out before I could form a better response.  
It took a lot more than turning my head to ignore the hurt I knew was etched over Brendon's face. It wasn't my fault he was so sensitive. If anything, I blamed it on the drugs. They could diminish a man's outer emotional shield like acid. Perhaps Brendon just never had one to begin with.  
"Come on, please?" Jon begged, fluttering his eyelashes. He sounded so far out of his mind, it was like he was submerged in water. "Guys, he doesn't want to. Leave him alone." Brendon chided softly, fumbling with his hands and keeping his eyes on the patterned carpet.  
"Fine." I turned quickly, leaning over to Brendon and pressing my lips against his.  
Instantaneously, I pulled away. He knew what kissing me was like. He didn't need to make a production of it. Jon and Spencer burst into applause.  
"Fuck off," I muttered. Brendon was licking his lips discreetly, clearly looking for traces of the chapstick I wore.  
"Was that so hard?", teased Spencer.  
Yes, yes, it was, I wanted to tell him. But he had no way of knowing. He was as far gone as Jon. And Brendon, well, he looked as though he had just seen God. We were all spaced out, trapped in our own minds.I suppose that's the primary reason getting high is so fun. And perhaps that's why I didn't want to kiss him; it felt like he was in mine.  
As time passed, so did the thrill of the high. Spencer and Jon passed out on the floor, tied up in their own whimsical dreams. I went to my room, seeking shelter from the aftermath of such a binge. Sprawled out upon my bed, spinning thoughts and whirlwinds of colour fluttered through my mind. The room was blurred; my vision was impaired. Sounds flowed throughout my brain, like a jewelry box with a permanently unclosed lid. Twinkling notes of broken instrumentals rang out, drifting into melodies.  
My body lay limp, still despite my ever-moving mindset. As the first darting notes of sleep thrummed through me, the door creaked open. "Are you awake?", a soft voice asked. I could put no name to it. By way of response, I vaguely waved my hand. The bed sank down in the corner. Brendon, as I registered his face, seemed to be analyzing me with more concern than I had for myself. He bit his lip, looking around. Once or twice, he opened his mouth as though to speak, then didn't.  
"What?", I slurred, and he startled as though he had forgotten my presence.  
"You know how much you mean to me, right?" He began gently thumbing the line of my jaw, as though that touch was holding him in place.  
I nodded.  
"Do you...do you think you love me?" He looked terrified as soon as he said it, as if he was fearful that I would say no, push him away, say it had always been for sex and that I couldn't stand him. In that case, he was wrong.  
"Yes," I replied drearily. He visibly relaxed.  
His movements halted and he pulled his hand away. Instantly, it seemed like a warmth was gone. That was a feeling I've since then come to get used to.  
"Really? Because I know that I love you." He avoided meeting my eyes, kept his at the level of my hip, stopped looking for answers. "Yeah, yeah, I do. I love you." We had said it before, but it seemed that this night had installed suspicion in him. "You love me." He repeated it a bit breathlessly, almost to himself.  
He kissed me. I didn't feel it.


	2. "Take A Sad Song, And Make It Better"

Sitting in my designated chair by the window, I tried to find a way to phrase the thoughts bustling through my mind. Jon and Spencer lay on the floor, silent, as Brendon tapped his hands nervously from his seat at the foot of my bed.  
"I can't think of anything," I declared. The others sighed. Fuck them. They had no idea how difficult it was to put your jumbled thoughts into literate words, yet here they sat, judging me for struggling. Fuck them. Writing was difficult enough without observers.  
"She never knew what was true, because I kept it hidden...", Jon mused aloud. We had been building upon this line for an hour, with no progress nor incentive to work.  
Brendon looked up. "Hiding isn't lying, it's just not making things given." The words spilled rapidly.  
How in the hell could he have come up with that so quickly? Brilliant minds make brilliant things in limited times. It was a policy Pete Wentz had explained to me once, and I was beginning to see it. I smiled. Brendon didn't.  
Laying on my stomach on the oversized bed, I pondered how exactly lyrics were formed. A melody catches into your mind like a fish upon a hook, waiting for the lines you assign. Rhyming words with deep or no meaning toppled out, and laced into the melody to form a divine sequence of your innermost thoughts. It truly was taken for granted. Brendon was in the other room, and hadn't come out since we had finished the song. Something seemed off. But I couldn't tell. He wouldn't let me see enough to.

Shadows are more than dancing beams upon a surface. They're in people, and around us, too. Currently, shadows were being casted from the moon, dancing over the land and water. It was one of those instances where you find yourself so oddly connected to something with which you have no real connection; in my case, it was the moon. How it gave up all that it had to let the sun free during the day, to let people bask in it and enjoy it. How it could only be truly presented in darkness.  
How, to a select few, it was to be looked upon. But people don't come out at night. The sun is what they want to be around. The sun. Bouncing images of bright smiles and twinkling eyes came to mind, of bubbly laughs and warmth. He really was very much like the Sun. Both were beautiful, so bright, the light upon a whole world. What people came to see. What the moon himself died for each day. The trickling waves of the nearby lake mixed with the humming of local birds, all tying into a pattern.  
I bit the cap of my pen, scratching down a few notes on my unstoppable thoughts regarding the sun and moon. A combination so beautiful, yet so painful. They could never be together at the same time, never fully meet. I knew Brendon was inside, reading my copy of The Great Gatsby, listening to my edition of Pet Sounds. Thinking. The Sun looked so empty, yet we all know how full it is. How bright it is. And the moon...well, it isn't what makes it so we can see. If anything, it symbolizes darkness.  
As I stood, alone with my thoughts and my newfound acquaintance, I heard cautious footsteps.  
"He's in there, you know. He's crying." Jon's voice was softer than the crickets around us, yet his message was well-received.  
I didn't turn to look at him. He knew he had my attention.  
"Why?", was all I could reply.  
Jon let out a small laugh. "He's in his room. Listening to your albums. Crying. Spencer asked what's wrong. He said Brendon's scared. Are you scared, Ryan?" At this, he turned to look at me.  
"Of what?", I inquired. I knew what. Brendon was scared of us, of any lies that weren't circulating around, of any possibility of downfall between us.  
"Of you two. Of your, uh, epic love story...meeting an unfinished chapter." Jon glanced at me, seemingly concerned. He knew.  
"It won't. I'll be inside in a few minutes." I looked over at the trees, wondering how long ago they had been planted. Wondering if the people that had planted them had ever feared that they'd collapse. Or, that they'd grow.  
Despite assuring Jon that I'd be coming in soon, I remained outside for several minutes. Brendon was scared. Scared of me hurting him, of our relationship failing. I couldn't help but to find him somewhat idiotic for it; nothing valid could have led him to believe that there were issues. He had to be overthinking things. He always did. Or, maybe, I just never thought them through enough. Regardless, no amount of thinking or lack of was preventing me from going back inside and tapping his door.  
I knocked on the door quickly, expecting no real reaction. Sex made Brendon happy, and it felt wrong to have him upset. I'm not quite sure how I ever thought that trying to seduce him would repair our issues. The door opened hesitantly.  
"Hi," choked Brendon through poorly-hid tears. He stepped back, letting me in.  
"Hey, baby." I kept my voice low, sultry, attractive. I swayed my hips walking towards him, settled my hand on his waist, kissed his neck. It had become something of a science by then.  
"What are you doing?", he asked. He squirmed below my touch, just as he had years before during our first time.  
"Making it all better." I suppose that at the time, I thought I was. I mouthed at his neck, pushed him gently onto the bed, straddled his waist.  
"Fuck me?" It came out as a question rather than a demand. Brendon pushed on my hip.  
"Ryan, not right now. Get off me. I'm not in the mood." He spoke gruffly, attempting to wiggle out from where I remained seated on his lap.  
"Come on," I persisted, sucking bruises into his neck and squeezing his thighs. He tightened his grip on my waist, and with no warning, threw me off of him and onto the side of the bed.  
"I don't want to. God, you have no fucking regard for anything but sex. But yourself." His eyes were boiling with anger, as I stared up at him in absolute shock.  
He just _threw_ me. That _fucker_.  
"Well, fine, you fucking jackass. Keep crying. Drown, for all I fucking care." With that, I was gone.

I went to my room as quickly as I could. That hallway was nothing more than a passage through a timeline of memories and mistakes. It was a tunnel into more regrets. Throwing my door open then promptly slamming it once I had entered, I threw myself down onto the cold mattress with a scream of frustration.  
Why? Why did I go in there, try to manipulate him into remedial sex, disregard the plain fact that he wanted to talk? Why did I give him so little, when I had already taken all he could offer? I buried my face into the pillow, hot tears streaming down my face as my mind and body betrayed each other, yet connected so honestly. He didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve this.  
A part of me wanted to run back in there, gather him in my arms, apologize, talk until the Sun shone through his window. But, no. I chose to remain in place, sobbing away all chances of fixing the issues I had caused, destroying mind and detesting body, fighting against myself, until the moon shone through mine.  
As the first drops of sunlight drizzled through my window, I decided it was time for escape. I dressed, grabbed a cigarette box and lighter, a bottle of water, and a notebook. The pen was already pocketed. Walking outside, my journey immediately began in the direction of a beautiful green hill, overlooking the forest and providing a shelter from nothing but thoughts.  
Though, as luck would have it, my destination had already been made clear by Brendon. He sat on the top of the slope, gazing. Silent. Beautiful.  
"You should slide," I called. He turned and smiled broadly, the same smile that had lured me into so many of his other ridiculous ideas.  
"Only if you go first."  
I approached him warily, not wanting to add insult to injury. The last thing I'd ever be needing was to upset him yet again, especially in broad daylight, where I could see the tears.  
"I'm sorry," I tried limply. He waved me off. His dismissive attitude served as nothing more than yet another motion of pressure on my anxiety button.  
"You look beautiful," he said softly.  
Before I could find an equally endearing reply, his lips were on mine, and his hand was resting on the side of my jaw. Soft, plump, wet, his mouth worked over mine in a pattern of little bites and licks. Human nature captured me, and as I moved to grip his waist, I found myself getting pushed onto my back with him kneeling between my legs. His hands gripped my hair and hips; his actions gripped my heart.  
I was aware of the grass bleeding through our clothes. Of the flower petals latching into my hair. Of the previous night's rain water dampening my back.  
His thumbs caught my belt loops as though they belonged there; my spine arched to align with the torturous friction he was beginning to provide. His hand grazed my inner thigh, and I let out a soft and high moan of pleasure as the sensational waves crashed over us.  
"I love you," I gasped into his wet and open mouth. He smiled, licking my jaw. "I know you do."  
The crystal clear sky was like a pill capsule's outer shell, I suppose. It kept the poison on the inside. It kept it hidden. But clouds cross every path. The first raindrops were beginning to melt away the serene blue. In a way, I guess you could say we overdosed. We remained in place for several minutes, exploring each other's bodies through the restrictive clothes. Brendon slowly pulled away, licking over my swollen lips once before pulling me up and against his chest.  
"Look," he whispered, gesturing to the sunrise. How amazing it was that this Sun had been seen by everyone, had been around for billions of years, had provided warmth for all of Earth's organisms, yet it seemed as though it shone just for us in that instant.  
It cast shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, ignited the always-burning ember below his dark eyes. It highlighted every one of his beautiful features, as he held me like the Sun holds its planets in orbit. I gazed up at him as he smiled at our view. In moments like these, the small things enlarge and the large things shrink to no importance. The universe could burn, implode, cease to exist. At this moment, I had my own Sun keeping my world bright


	3. "He Only Loves Those Things Because He Loves To See Them Break"

I awoke to warmth, not only internally, but pressed against my side. Brendon was there, sleeping soundly, head on my chest, one thigh thrown over both of my legs and his hand on my stomach. He looked beautiful, even in rest. Serene. It was a calming distraction from all the madness, having him sprawled out over me.  
"Morning, sunshine," I mumbled, wrapping a free arm around him and smiling as he wiggled closer. His skin was soft against mine, both our shirts gone, clad only in underwear. Perfect.  
"Five more minutes," he muttered into my chest. His words left a wet spot against my skin.  
"Five more anything. Minutes, years...decades...diamonds on the ring I want to put on your finger..." I trailed off slowly, then leaned down to run my hand through his soft, dark hair.  
He smiled, squeezing my hip. He's so beautiful, I thought to myself. So amazing. I was right. I pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, pet his hair, held him close. Did all a man could do to not let him slip away.  
Gazing down at his sleeping form, whirring instrumentals and colourful lyrics began spiralling through my mind in a way only love could cause. Maneuvering myself partially out from beneath him, I grabbed the notebook that always laid dormant on my nightstand. Lyrics flowed mindlessly from the tip of my pen like spells from a wand, casting their effects on the paper. He, I realized, was my muse. All that I wrote about came from him. The one forgotten song about a girl who ran away? It was inspired by him walking out of church in defiance. The poem depicting the flowers and how easily petals fall, but how badly we want them back? I wrote it as he tore a poor daisy to shreds.  
This song, which poured from my mind like rain in Washington, came from him. It all did. His seashell eyes and windy smile, the sunshine gleaming from every inch of him. All of it found its merciless way into my writing. I stroked his hair with my thumb as I jotted down words, feeling the thrum of his breathing ease through me. The curtains were drawn and the sky was cloudy, with the pale outline of the moon slowly fading as dawn cracked. Brendon stirred, and the moon made way for the Sun.  
The day progressed, and over the course of a few hours, I somehow found myself on my knees with Brendon's pants around his. "Fuck, you're so hot...", he purred, running his hand through my hair. He was hard and throbbing in front of me, just within reach. Perfect. I slipped my tongue out to lightly lick the very tip, earning a hiss from him. Repeating the action multiple times, I gently took the head into my mouth and sucked slowly as Brendon moaned in rough tones.  
He was gripping my hair, pushing me down, as I carefully tongued the vein on the underside and put forth my best efforts at pleasuring him. My hand came up to gently rub at his balls while he threaded his through my hair, and within no time, loud moans were pouring from him like waterfalls. But, of course, nothing can ever go right for me, and I was abruptly choked as the door opened. "Hey, guys- Oh, God, what the fuck?!" shrieked Spencer. He covered his eyes in horror, as I pulled off rapidly.  
"Why would you just open the door? Why not fucking knock?" Brendon yelled with a laugh. Of course he was fucking laughing. He had no idea how humiliating it was to be caught with a dick down your throat by your best friend.  
"I didn't think you'd be doing _that_ ," Spencer whined. I wiped the remaining fluid from my mouth and spun towards him. How fucking stupid was he?  
"Well, we were! So what the fuck?" I hissed the words, and he looked terrified for a split second. Good. He deserved it  
He turned, shaking his head with disgust and a scoff, as though me engaging in sexual acts with my boyfriend was some unimaginable horror. Even after he slammed the door, I could hear him shout, "I just saw Ryan sucking Brendon's dick!" from across the tiny cabin. Jon's voice sounded out in reply, and I could make out a somewhat muffled, "Well, fuck, they sure went a lot further than that kiss the other night." Fuck him. Fuck Spencer. Fuck doors that didn't lock properly. Fuck nosiness and close-quarters. I turned back to Brendon, pushing the door as far shut as possible and locking it securely. Fuck _me_.

Brendons POV  
******************** Sex is fun. You get to just chill out, or go fucking hardcore, with someone hot. And feel good. It's just an all-around great time. Like, for example, how Ryan was riding me at the moment, bouncing up and down so fast and hard I thought he was going to break the fucking bed. Which would suck, because we rented this place, and would have to pay damage repair fees. "Oh, fuck, yeah, Brendon!" He shrieked, moaning like a total whore. Like I said, a generally great time.  
He gave a few enthusiastic bounces, slamming down on my hips and moaning each time he did so. I felt like a God, laying here with this gorgeous person, having awesome sex, in a nice bed, in a nice cabin, in a state with generally good weather. Of course, nothing can stay good. Ryan abruptly stopped and sat still, me still fully inside of him, and sighed. "Um...buffering?", I joked, nudging his hip. He pouted. "I can't stop thinking about Spencer's face. He looked so horrified." He whined it all.  
"Oh my God, still? The entire time you've been riding on my dick, screaming my name, you were thinking about Spencer's mental trauma? God damn. You're complex, Ross." I prodded his hip with my hand, still painfully hard, and tried to get him to keep moving. Of course, he misread my indications, and pulled himself up and off, laying next to me while I had to watch my own erection pathetically, achingly fade. "He saw me sucking you off. He's too young. And he ruined our orgasms, too," Ryan hissed.  
I bit my lip and kissed his cheek, pulling him close. "You're pretty sexy when you're angry," I laughed. He glared at me. "Fuck off, Bender. My childhood best friend just saw me giving you oral on the dusty floor of a haunted-ass cabin. Show some decorum." He tried to look pissed, but the smirk playing around his plump lips gave him away. I couldn't help but to laugh aloud, earning a smack on the arm. I deserved it. He turned away, shunning me, and tried to wiggle out of the hug I trapped him in.  
We came out of the bedroom at about 4:30, after a long couple of hours spent doing nothing that brought me any physical satisfaction. Fucking Spencer. I couldn't even make love to my boyfriend without him ruining things, and it had been hours. Ryan was still on the verge of an emotional breakdown. I got up at the same time he did, and we dressed quickly, still dreary from the nap. "So, did you have fun? Because your bed sounded like a trampoline for a good two hours," declared Jon as I walked in.  
Ryan followed shortly behind me, limping somewhat, his face bright red. I'm only a guy; I couldn't help but to feel a little pride at the unevenness in his steps. "Yeah, Ry, I'd ask you to explain, but it seems like kind of a mouthful." Spencer laughed quietly upon making his joke, and I joined in. It was funny, can you blame me? Ryan was averting everyone's gaze, hand cupping his own jaw, eyes on the floor. Jon sipped the beer he seemed to constantly have in his hand. He snickered. Ryan didn't.  
A fairly awkward silence filled the room. All eyes were on Ryan, yet we all tried to make it seem as though they weren't. He was shaking, crumbling below the stares, red with humiliation. Finally, Jon spoke up. "I think I have an idea for a song...um, this lyric just came to mind about am hour ago. _Ventriloquy_ holds puppets among fragile strings, and so lives are controlled by these delicate _things_. I don't know, it's not that go-"  
"I love it." Ryan cut him off, barely above a whisper.  
Jon's face lit up, hard and thoughtful complexion cracked by a glowing smile.  
"You do?"  
Ryan nodded, biting his lip. "I do."  
For a reason known only to the unconfirmed Gods, he reached over and took my hand in his, stroking it with his thumb. His mind was like factory gears, grinding endlessly and churning out products of thought, all to be used by millions. For the first time since entering the room, he smiled. After a moment, I think we all did.

On my back, on the bed, I carefully looked around the room. Brendon was standing in a corner, smirking, holding a small scarf.  
"Hands up," he commanded, stepping forward and touching my wrist with the fabric.  
I hated it. Being tied up gave me nothing but bad memories, in a distorted and disorderly fashion. It was horrible. Nonetheless, I raised my arms and allowed him to bind my wrists to the headboard.  
"Look at you. So thin. So delicate. So...breakable. You want me to break you?". Shivers thrummed through me at his taunting tone, as well as the way he was trailing his fingertips along my thigh. I had only really wanted to make love with him, as cliché as it sounds. I hadn't wanted this. I hated when people criticized my body. It was flawed enough; I could see it on my own, thank you.  
"Let me ask you something...did Pete ever fuck you? I was just thinking about the way he looks at you sometimes. I don't like it."  
He sounded predatory and slightly slurred. A bad combination. I furrowed my brow and frowned.  
"What does Pete have to do with anything? It isn't your business who I have or haven't had sex with. What matters is that, hopefully from now on, it'll be you." I noted, and he scowled.  
"So that's a yes, then. God, you're such a slut. Whatever. Call me Master for the rest of the night. If you can't follow instructions, you'll be punished. It's that simple." He slapped my thigh sharply, and I hissed. We'd only done it this way twice; neither had been like this. His thumbs dug into my hip-bones suddenly, hooking into my skin. It ached, just as his mouth on my neck did. He was sucking far too hard, leaving bruises with his hands and lips alike. His body pressed down into mine, and not in the pleasurable and arousing way it typically did.  
"Brendon," I muttered, pushing lightly at his chest. He continued marking up my neck. "Brendon, get up." Once again, I was ignored. His weight was sinking into me, suffocating me, triggering claustrophobia and anxiety.  
"Brendon, get off me!" I demanded, squirming in a vain attempt to break free from below him. But my bound wrists kept me in place. He slicked up and pushed into me slowly, and with no warning; the lack of preparation made the experience far from the erotic and romantic way it usually was. Instead, it felt dirty. Wrong. I felt used. The burn sank in just as he did, and I threw my head back and shut my eyes. His nails sliced into my skin, biting viciously at flesh that he had never before hurt.  
"Why are you doing this?", I asked, grinding my teeth as he built a steady yet somehow sloppy pace. He ignored me.  
"Why do you suddenly hate me? Did I do something to make you mad?" The questions poured from me like the tears threatening to escape. His thrusts halted and his eyes met mine; fire on water.  
"You wouldn't let me shower with you. And you're cheating on me, you little slut. Don't pretend you don't know." At this, he leaned over, grabbed my phone, and displayed messages from Pete.They were completely innocent; it was a simple discussion about how far Johnny Rotten's career had fallen off track. Yet, Brendon, in his drunken mindset, took it to mean that I was clearly sexting Pete behind his back and that I was ultimately a whore.  
"Brendon," I began, trying to talk sense into him from my compromising position.  
"Shut up," he growled. He pinched my inner thigh roughly, and I felt the thin skin tear as his thumbnail snagged it. It wasn't rape, not really. I wanted him. I just hadn't wanted _that_.I hadn't wanted pain and punishment. I had wanted to make love and exchange kisses and talk about our future. But here I was, blood dripping down my thigh, the source unknown because of there being so many possibilities. I let my head fall back on the pillow, let my mind wander. It would be over soon. Soon. Soon. The word faded slowly in my mind as the pain became unbearable.  
I don't recall what happened. Ask him. After all, he isn't the one who passed out. He kept going, had his way, had his fun. In a sense, I had mine, too. I got to get out of it. Even if it was only mentally. Regardless, when I woke up and he was gone, and bloodstains lay below me on the crisp white bed, I'd never been so thankful for bandages. Unfortunately, they can't cover the inner wounds. That was something only liquor and denial can do. Luckily, I had, and still do have, plenty of both.


	4. "And In The End, The Love You Take Is Equal To The Love You Make"

_Spencer's_ _POV_  
********************* Things hadn't been normal. Not the way they should be. I mean, there's no assigned order to life. But if there were, it'd be under threat. Ryan hadn't left his room for four days, had been in there alone since Tuesday. I couldn't blame him; who would want to come out? But the sounds of sobbing and records too loudly. Quiet and breaking glass kept drifting through the crack in the door and right to me. I had knocked, opened the door. Found him laying on the floor, clutching whiskey to his chest.  
"What are you doing?" I asked. He glanced up, way too slowly. The room reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. "Sleeping." His slurred response came. "You're awake. Not sleeping. Are you okay?" By way of response, he put his head back down. Typical. Evade the issue. I crouched next to him, patted his back.  
"Get up," I muttered. He twitched. "What's wrong? On your period? Mid-life crisis?" I poked his shoulder playfully. He whined. "Go away," he groaned. I refused. "God, you're such a fucking asshole! Get the fuck out!" He burst out yelling, snapped his head up, got onto his feet shakily. "Not until you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you." Persistence wins, Spencer. Or so I told myself. His eyes lit up with cloudy fury. _You're_ my fucking problem! Now fuck off!" He screeched.  
Despite his confusion, I recall Jon and I wrangling Ryan onto the floor. He was fighting within an inch of his life, tooth and nail, kicking and screaming. Yet he fell into absolute silence when, from his position on the floor, he saw Brendon in the doorway. It was impossible to tell whose face was whiter in that instant. Seconds of horrified staring, and Brendon turned on his heel and left. Ryan slumped down, and, soon, heavy sobs were wracking his small body. I don't blame it on the liquor. Within the hour, Brendon was gone and so was the car. Ryan remained on the floor, vomiting several times, once on Jon's lap. "Where did Brendon go?" "I want Brendon." "Have him come hold me." "I miss Brendon." The same sentences left Ryan's lips at least a thousand times. We didn't see Brendon at all for the rest of the night; I remember drinking some of Ryan's absinthe and passing out shortly. All I know anymore is that Brendon came home the next night, and, looking back, I wish he hadn't

I sat on the porch with a bottle of beer in my hand, looking out at the purple sky. Just the night before, Ryan had gone completely ballistic. He hadn't left his room even once today. Silence and the sounds of birds drifted through the air. That is, until soft footsteps could be heard padding across the deck. Brendon pulled a seat up next to me, said nothing. Did nothing. He just lit a cigarette. I spoke first. "What the hell is going on, man?" He glanced over at me.  
"What do you mean?"  
"You and Ryan. You two are either  
your best or your worst together. It's killing him."  
Brendon looked up and furrowed his brow, taking a long drag. As though it held the courage he needed.  
"I mean, he's just been so emotional lately," he shrugged.  
"What do you mean?"  
Ryan's outburst had been a result of pent-up pain, not a sudden jolt of energy.  
"Mood swings, gettin' mad at everything, crying...just general bitchiness."  
Brendon took another drag. "I dunno what's got him so fucked up."  
At that, I scoffed aloud.  
"Bren, it's you. You've got him fucked up."  
He had to have known that Ryan's mental breakdown was a result of issues he had caused, right? "I mean, do you even love him?" At this, he snapped his neck towards me.  
"Of course I do."  
"I love making him happy and making him feel good. The other night was just a mistake,"  
he stated. I raised my eyebrows. What other night?  
"What happened?"  
"I mean... I dunno"  
"I don't think he wanted to."  
Brendon sounded dejected as he spoke. Fearful.  
"Didn't want to what?"  
"Have sex with me. " He spoke really quietly, and my eyes grew wide. Far too much information.  
"Okay...he wasn't horny. So what?"  
"No, like...like. I made him."  
His head was tilted down, away from my eyes.  
"I mean, he didn't do anything. I was so drunk, man. I was so mad. And he just laid there and let me touch him. He seemed kinda into it. He didn't push me away that much."  
The words ran through my ears and back again, and I tried to process what I was hearing. No. No way.  
"That much? He pushed you  
away?"  
I asked, trying to remain calm.  
"Yeah. I guess so."  
"And what did you do?" He looked down again, bit his lip, and looked back up.  
"I fucked him. I mean, nothing new, right? All I did was fuck him."  
He sounded far too nonchalant for someone discussing rape. I nodded, turned away, looked down. I thought. I decided. With no hesitation, I spun around, and swung. The blow landed over the left side of his face with a deafening crack.  
"You fucking piece of shit,"  
I snarled. My knuckles were dripping and torn; his nose was gushing. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  
He shrieked, trying frantically to stop the flow.  
"He doesn't fucking need that in his life. You have no idea what he's been through."  
I spat the words, trembling with white hot rage.  
"How many fucking times have you done that to him?" I growled. He winced.  
"Just once, asshole." Fuck him.  
"It's going to stay that way. Fuck you. I hope you fucking die."  
With that, I shoved him up against the railing, and he stormed inside. The slamming of the door had to have awaken at least a thousand people. I didn't give a fuck. I was wracked with disgust and anger, shaking with it. He caused this. He hurt Ryan beyond repair. Ryan, who only wanted love, but got abuse. Just like when he was a kid. And inside, I could still hear his records playing.


	5. "Soft-Spoken With A Broken Jaw; Step Outside, But Not To Brawl"

_Brendon's_ _POV_

*******************

I wrenched open the door, threw myself forward, thundered through the small cabin so loudly I could hear Jon grumble. Kicking off my Converse, I went into my room and sat on the corner of the bed. This bed, which now felt like a crime scene. Rape? It was _not_ rape. I mean, he didn't want it. But he wasn't able to stop me. He didn't try hard enough. That had to stand for something, right? Wrong. It was rape, and you know it now, too. The little voice in my head screamed these accusations.I told it to shut the hell up. I stood, shook my head, sauntered to the bathroom. My jaw had to at least be sprained. Is that a thing? It felt broken. As I opened the door, I was greeted with a small gasp.  
"Oh, sorry, I'll-"  
I began. Ryan fluttered over to me, looking completely horrified.  
"What happened to you?", he slurred. He gently, yet sloppily, grabbed my face.  
"I fell,"  
I replied bluntly. He was wasted, anyway. He frowned even deeper, then leaned in and thumbed my blossoming bruise.  
"Does it hurt?"  
He asked. "I guess, a little."  
I was lying. It hurt like a bitch, but he didn't need to know. It wasn't like I didn't deserve it. Slowly, he leaned further, and softly kissed the wound. He even paused to give it a butterfly kiss with his long lashes, then smiled at me in his intoxicated state.  
"All better,"  
he whispered. Yeah. All better. His thin arms pulled me into a loving hug, which I slowly melted into. His breath against my shoulder, his arms around me. All I'd ever need.As I held him, he let out a small whimper.  
"What is it?"  
I asked, but as I pulled my hand away, I felt the lump of an injury on his soft hip. Carefully lifting up the hem of his shirt, I was met with a colorful array of horrendous bruises, once-perfect flesh littered with small crescent-shaped cuts left by my hands.  
"Oh my God, Oh my God,"  
I choked out. I had done this. I had hurt him. Him. The one person who deserved the least pain in this entire sadistic world. Yet I had inflicted it upon him.  
"I'm so sorry,"  
I said, tears beginning to leak as I saw how pale and sickly he looked.  
"For what?"  
"For being so distant, getting mad about stupid shit, hurting you, everything. I'm so, so, sorry."  
Just as my knees were beginning to give out, his thin and weak hand caught my shoulder.  
"It's okay, I promise. I deserved it, anyway. I didn't listen to you."  
His voice was hoarse and sage. Oh, God no. I had hurt him so badly, he was practically broken into submission. No. He never wanted this.He wanted love, gentle touches and warmth. Intimacy that brought us both pleasure and happiness. Laughs and kisses and cuddles and adoration. Not untreated incisions and contusions stamped over skin that it was my job to worship. Not this. And for him to be blaming himself...oh, God. No. His voice was faint in my ears, yet all I could hear was him saying  
"no".  
Begging for it to stop. I could still feel him pushing my chest, yet here, in reality, he was shaking my shoulders


End file.
